


Gods of Chaos

by impossiblewanderings



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Chaos, Crime, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Horror, Humor, Insanity, Post-TDK, Weapons, because it always seems to be Christmas in my stories, it's Christmas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:06:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblewanderings/pseuds/impossiblewanderings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To-do list: One. Get out of Ark-hammm. Two. Suit up. Threeeeee. Find my KNIVES. Four. Make Him play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Midnight Musings

**Author's Note:**

> Suicide Squad has officially reignited my Joker obsession. I went back to read my old TDK stories on FF.net and remembered just how much FUN I had writing this particular story. I had this huge plot in motion, and a lot of delightful insanity planned, and it feels wrong not to see this through to the end.
> 
> This story is mostly from the Joker's perspective, so expect confusion, unreliable narration, and weird trains of thought. Paragraph breaks are either used to separate POV changes, or in the case of the Joker, changes in thought.
> 
> References for this chapter in order of appearance: 'Grizabella the Glamour Cat' from the musical Cats, Baz Luhrmann's Romeo & Juliet, 'OHMYGODIMONFIRE' by Logan Whitehurst and the Junior Science Club, A Clockwork Orange, 'Vesti La Guibba' from the opera Pagliacci, The Untouchables, and 'Mad World' by Gary Jules.

_"Remark the cat ... who hesitates towards you ..."_

And here they come again. Five sets of hoof beats, across the desert to my doorstep ...

Wait. No.

Six.

They've brought a friend this time. Delightful. I wonder if this one likes to kick, or punch more. Or maybe he's a biter.

Kinky.

* * *

_"In the light of the door, which opens on her ... like a grin."_

After a while, it all becomes routine.

They'll enter, blocking out the light from the corridor, six blocks of shadow. The camera behind them will have shut its beady little eye for the night. They'll glare, attempt to look ... intimidating.

They will fail. Carter, especially, didn't attend that _par-tic-ular_ course at Orderlies Inc. He scrunches up his face (it must be hard to see out of those tiny eyehole slits) and tries to appear frightening. If they thought I would cry ...

Beg ...

_(dieee in the streets)_

Hmm.

Well, they thought wrong.

I'll laugh, though, I guess.

Even the worst comedians get a pity laugh. Even from rough crowds. Even from _me_.

So it's Carter and his Scrunch of Doom, its Daniels and that overworked upper frame (his legs are like noodles) (maybe I'll break one) (or both) (maybe I won't have to, and the weight of all those muscles will do all the work for me one day ... toothpicks splintered on the sidewalk). Now that'd be a sight. That might make me more than just ... chuckle.

Ha.

* * *

_"You see the border of her coat is torn and stained with sand."_

And Swanson too _(the gang's all here)_ and he's got a mean pinched look about him, like a mongrel dog, like a one-legged seagull, all grit and nastiness and cheap (petrol) cologne. He is backstreet alleyways and the shadows at the back of bus stop shelters. He _bores_ me.

You are boring, son of Swan. Go eat some garbage. Strike a match and go up in flames (you're flammable enough) and maybe, just maybe, then you might be _interesting_ enough for me to notice you. If you scream loud enough, I might even put you out again.

(see him running from the porch like some kind of human TORCH)

_o-haych-em-why-gee-oh-dee-i-em-oh-en-eff-eii-arr-eeeeee_

"Ha-hee-hee-ha.

_HA-HA-HAA-HA._

_HA._

_Ahhhh_..."

Who else? It's hard to concentrate, with all these _horrorshow_ visions in my head. Swanny a-flailing at the bus stop. The bus driver yelling at him.

_Don't flag down a bus unless you want to get on-stop screaming you flaming piece-of-shit-ha._

Ummm ...

So. _Fred_ is here. _Fred_ doesn't like me very much. I don't think _Fred_ likes clowns very much either. One too many childhood parties ended with tears and stained panties for Freddie, methinks. Oh dear. Fred doesn't show up every night, actually. Has fits of the conscience, standing in front of some cheap mirror, Gothamite whore in the background, snorting up some coke, and he thinks to himself: _Should I be beating up mental patients? Somewhere, deep down, I know that's WRONG. With a capital double U_.

Ah, but childhood scars do run ... deep.

Some deeper than others.

And Rogers.

Mister Rogers.

Rogers, apparently, just enjoys beating up people. Ones that wear pyjamas during the daytime (and night time-stylish and functional!) Ones that are too busy drooling to fight back. He is the childhood bully turned crazy-nurse. And he don't like it. I supp-ose he could just get another job, but hey, why bother? That takes effort. That would probably make him _grunt_ with effort. Like he grunts every time he hits me.

_Gah._

_Guh._

_Humf._

"HA."

Maybe he just likes it. Like me. We go well together actually. Like squealers and gasoline. Like fashionable suits and secret pockets. He gets off giving the punches and I get off receiving them. Like little friendly messages that pass between us: did you like that/yes I did/well here comes another one/yay.

He is a little bit mouthy though (in between grunts). He likes name-calling, like every good bully does. Freak and clown and monster and retard and psycho and scarface and puppet and bitch and crazy and ugly and freak and stupid and monster and-whoops. Started repeating myself there.

Just like he does.

I have heard though, on the grapevine- that his first name is Kelly.

"Whoo-ha-haHA-HAAA."

Kelly Rogers. Every time, it gets me.

Try a bit harder ... Kelly.

You punch like a girl ... KELLY.

Who you callin' bitch ... KELLIEEEEEEEEEEEE.

* * *

_And you see ... the corner of her eye ... twist ... like a crooked pin."_

And hereeeee's Newbie.

Ooh, he's a tough one, this one.

Haven't seen him around bef ... wait. Yes I have. Fifteen days ago. En route to a session. He passed by in the corridor, he had (snake eyes-black eyes-that's different) _yes_ , and he was new, young, angry. He had on civvie clothes, a ragged leather jacket, but fake, too poor or dumb to go for the real deal, faded blue jeans and this the fake faded, that you can buy in a shop, so that says what ... fashion-conscious? He had greasy hair and maybe seven holes in his forearm, sleeves rolled back too far, _you ain't gonna last too long here if you're a druggo there hotshot_ , was what I thought back then. But now ...

So not a druggo, then. Not _trrrripping_ the light fantastic.

Low-level scum. Petty thief? Lowest of the criminals, fish so small the sharks can't even feel the bite. But still. Interesting. What's he here for? And I don't mean right now, and I don't mean on earth. It's the in-between that's caught my attention.

Twist ... like a _crooked_ pin.

Hmm.

Stay tuned then. He could be a _crazy_.

* * *

So here they all are, and here I am, and it's time to get the beat on.

"Time to get up, shithead!"

Ah, Kelly's one liners. Works of art, every one.

_"Recitar? Mentre preso dal delirio?"_

"Huh?"

Not a speck of class between them. Or maybe they've just never seen _The Untouchables_.

He sends one of yours to the hospital ...

You send one of his to the morgue.

Oh, and I've sent more than one.

Six.

Seven-eight-nine-ten.

And more.

To

the

 _Morgue_.

Anyway ... ooh. Lookie here. Newbie's got himself a _love ring_. Could be a fashion ring, I guess. It's certainly tacky enough. But it could be from a girrrrrlly. Or a lover. (what dream are they living?) Love. Rings. Ha.

Rogers steps in first, of course, there's always gotta be a leader, and drags me by the straitjacket off my mattress. His first punch also hits my straitjacket, which makes me laugh.

"Even though it seems to be part of me ... there, Kelly-pie ... trust me, I can't feel anything through all this padding."

This makes him growl (as in terrier not Doberman) and he starts in with the boot, whack-whack-whack- _whack_ …

Annnnd there it is!

"Aaaah ... that's _better!_ " That last kick has a shiver bucking up my spine. I'm tasting blood. Ooh, he is _trying_ tonight.

 _"So you've had a baaaaad day ..."_ I sing, and aw, now everyone's pitching in. Daniels throwing me into the padded wall (a lot harder than the name implies) and Swanson leering in the background. He likes to _watch_ , does Swannyson. He'll only kick in when I've stopped twitching.

They're scavengers, seagulls, after all.

"Come on kid, have a go."

"Oh you don't have to encourage _Newbie_ , Fred, I'm sure he'll do just fiiine."

I give him a flash of my pearly goldens.

Newbie flinches, just a little.

No, don't tell me Newbie's _soft_. That takes all the fun out of it, if he's soft. I don't have time for soft things.

It takes a while for Newbie to unfurl into his new role. He lets Fred and Daniels and Rogers go to town and hangs back with stare-y leery Swanny. I get a few good kicks in, one straight to Fred's nose, and for once, he spills blood before I do.

He's roaring and swearing at me (blood's pouring onto my face thanks-very-much) and my disadvantage groundwise takes a nasty turn when he kicks me in the temple.

Oooh, stars and rockets!

Ouch. Annnd ...

Now I'm all fuzzy.

The blows are like drumbeats now, far away and dulled. How boring.

Newbie's joining in!

CRACK! Boot across the jaw. Now ... _that's_ gonna raise a lump come morning.

...

"Hey! Hey guys! Ease up a bit! Someone's gonna notice ..."

That's Carter, whining. As usual. Grow some _balls_ , Carter. 'Cause I'm taking the ones you already got.

"Are you kidding? Who the fuck wants to get close enough to _him_ to find that out?"

"More people than you know. It's my ... ha-ha… animal magnetism."

That gets another blow to the head ... more fuzziness ... and a slap that snaps my neck back.

What? A slap?

"Hoo-HAHAHA- you didn't tell me we were having ... a catfight! HEE-hahaha!"

Newbie (by luck or design I wonder) manages to crack an already battered rib, and soon the floor is covered with my juicy red innards. Yum. I'm laughing still, through a mouth full of gore, and the ground seems to be tilting under me, even though, I'm _pretty_ sure, I'm already lying down.

The ground is still rocking wildly when they decide to leave. It's kind of like being on a ship, what with the pitching and the rolling and that rock down deep in my gut that's trying to work its way up the back of my throat.

My head is bright-white and bursting. I taste my scars, and my blood, and thready strips of cotton.

Bat wings brush the very edges of my vision, and I let the dark come down.

I wonder ...

If _He_ misses me.


	2. Dicks and Tricks

Waking up in your own goo is an interesting sensation.

I can recommend it for _drei_ reasons.

As in _eins_... for the orderly wrestling with the door

 _zwei_ … for the sight of Yours Truly asleep (or dead?)

and _dreiiii_... for the hook around the ankle that sends him

CRASHING

to the ground.

Heel to the windpipe- whacko!

(Croak all y'like there little froggie- help help help help)

NO ONE IS COMING.

Not for you.

Well ... not in time.

Foot to the nose- blood pouring all over my nice stained floor, you are messy aren't you –let me see if I can fix that.

It takes a little technique of course, everything does, but all you need is the right angle. Straight back there into the skull, drive that cartilage deeeeep.

"HAHA-Ha!"

Shards in your brain, froggie?

His eyes are rolling back to show those bloody whites- like he's trying to see the damage-hmmm- can ya see much Johnny?

There are people yelling, screaming, closer closer closer, where o where o WHERE has Johnny got to?

Step away from the dearly departed, two steps, three, sidle away – amazing what a good first impression can do – I didn't do it, it wasn't me how could it be when I was allll the way over here.

* * *

About ten people attempt to fight their way through my too-small door. All those doggies sniffing out the kill- half of them don't even know why they're here, like that one young doctor clipboard still in hand come to see the carnage and is that the janitor?

"HeehahHAAHAHA."

I get slammed (rudely) up against the wall (hello old friend) once again by four brainless apes (orderlies ... supposedly).

Ooh, it's Dr Ark-hammm himself, up in the early hours of the morning. He looks as tired as dear old Commish. Same wrinkles around the eyes, too many corpses, too many crazies.

I can have that effect on people.

Ha. 

He sees me for the first time, goes white as a virgin in snow. I _am_ difficult to take in all my glory before cockcrow- I know- I myself either have to sleep in 'til noon or avoid mirrors completely. It's difficult, because most of the apartments I choose- some abandoned, some more

_Recently_

Than others- every wall has one. Why don't people just _take_ their mirrors with them? I don't get it. Although ... without all those mirrors ...

Stork would still be able to see.

(Ah, Stork. You never were a very good henchclown.

Who sneaks into a man's bedroom in the dark – waking up to curious little peepers peeping in the dark- I don't lock my door but still –respect sometimes costs blood.

An eye for an eye, Stork. You see _meeeeeeeeee_...

And I make sure you don't see anything. A. Gain.)

It's amazing how quickly the old vocabulary treks downhill once pain is introduced.

It goes from “I'm gonna kill ya you fucking freak-face dickhole” to “oh shit oh shit oh shit my eyessss arrrrrggghhhhaaaa”.

Well.

In some people.

Ya really don't notice unless you're listening for it.

* * *

Dr Ark (hammmmm) massages his temples.

"God ... get a nurse down here! Someone ... Goddamnit!"

That's what I like about the good Doctor. He's so ... eloquent in times of stress.

"Sorry to hafta break it to ya, Doc. But I don't think that's gonna help Johnny very much."

Oh come on now, Doc. Look at me.

I am speaking to you, and all.

No?

No?

He just squares his shoulders against the mean nasty homicidal scary man's comments (helpful ones) and starts a conversation with Clipboard Doctor and Janitor. HA.

Ignoring people is a children's game, Doc.

I try and crack my neck (gotta loose that built up tension in the old joints) (don't really get much exercise nowadays) but I am thwarted by Uglies 1-4 and their manhandling.

"Cool it fellas ..." Purry tone, just like a cat.

Hoo-whee we have some homophobia floating round this cell _don't we_?

"I'm not gonna bite ya ..."

_Much._

Ooh elbow to the gut now that's just mean. First to strike (for the other team maybe?) Awkward sexuality is _fun_.

"Treat 'em mean and keep 'em keen is that the go ... Kendall?"

That's right. I can read nametags Kendall.

Kendall-Candle.

Flaming.

Away.

The amazing flaming Candall.

Hoo-hee-ha-hohoho.

Am I prettier up close?

* * *

 But Arkham decides to put an end to all the fun _(mine)_.

"HEY! Enough of that ... “ (he sighs) (it’s a long one) ”Take him to solitary. We've got to clean this mess up. Get his doctor ... which one is it now? Julie?"

No.

"You mean ... Rich-hard?"

All eyes on me.

I _don't like_ him.

Richard.

Rich.

Dick.

Dr. Dick.

Arkham's eyes flutter over me and away. Ya can't trust a man who doesn't keep eye contact.

"Right. Someone get Richard down here. Tell him I want him in my office five minutes ago!"

And that's all I get to hear before it's off to wend our merry way to the solitary cells.

Annnnd

My straitjacket

Is becoming

Loose.

What with all the _movement_ ...

Well then. Fun times are here again. And all that jazz.

 _Jazz-zzzzzz_.

Tickly word.

* * *

Whoo- _ha-ha_ -hoo.

Look who's on sentry duty today in solitary, gents.

It's _Fred_.

 _Clown-hating Fred_ , red-weeping Fred, nose-breaking, pants-wetting _Fred_.

"Hiya Fred! How's the _nose_?"

He glares at me.

Tries to.

His nose is all blotchy and red and possibly broken. For shame.

(Ha.)

Ugly No. 2 reaches for a door.

"No." (That's Fred, not me. I _like_ solitary. Lots of time to sleep.)

He grins at me- oh what does that nasty grin portend I wonder?

It's interesting times I live in, nowadays.

"Put him in here."

Someone gives me a shove so that I narrowly miss the doorframe.

Door clashes shut behind me, cutting off Fred mid-yelping giggle.

And someone

Else

Is in hereeeeeeeeee.

* * *

There's a grunt, like a –waking-up-grunt, like a returning-to-consciousness-kinda-grunt.

Back to the wall, fingers wiggling in their fabric trap, waiting.

Someone must have been a naughty boy, kept down here in the _dark_.

The mattress creaks as he gets up.

Gotta get the jacket off.

There's a scraaaape on the ground.

Gotta get the jacket OFF.

I rotate my shoulders, feel them crack. The fabric is stretching, but not quickly enough and not far enough.

And here comes the adrenaline, like a syringe-full straight to the heart.

It makes me straighten up. It makes me _see_.

Freedom is only a few rips away.

But so is he.

Someone else- breathing- in the cold darkness

They must be a bad person, someone bad (not as bad as me)

But still

Something is tearing

My eyes are wide but the darkness is absolute

AND

here

he

 _comes_.

* * *

"So, Joker..."

He gives a wide white toothy grin.

Doctor Dick.

He'd be handsome, if it weren't for that weak chin and that anxious flicker in his eyes. Sort of in the same way that Harvey Dent would be handsome if it weren't for the fact that half of his face has fallen off.

My handiwork.

Hee-Ha-hA.

"Would you like to tell me what happened in your room this morning? With John?"

"Ya can't ... figure it out yourself there Dick? Don't 'cha ever watch _C.S.I_?"

"Yes, well, I would like to hear your version of events. Straight from the horse's mouth, as it were."

He gives a deep, rich, hearty, false laugh. Like, what, he expects me to join in? Like we could laugh together, then I tell him all my secrets, he writes an article, gets rich, and then we go fishing together on his private yacht. And when he says mouth, his eyes keep flickering to...

Ah.

The _scars_.

Everyone wants to know about the scars.

I don't mind telling, of course. There's nothing like breaking the ice of an awkward first meeting than with that conversational gem.

He's got to earn it though. I don't like him.

They've put me in yet another straitjacket. How am I supposed to gesture?

I'd gesture with my legs but they're chained to the floor.

They've also scrubbed all the blood off.

It's probably a good thing, seeing as most of it wasn't mine.

"Johnny interrupted my nap. And I'm not a morning person."

Dick scribbles something down on his notepad. Why do psychologists all have such bad handwriting?

"Okay, well how about what happened in solitary? Would you like to tell me about that?"

No.

No I really don't think I do.

"Ya know what I like about you Dick? You're such a ... straight-forward person. Not like my last doctor. Oh, he was such a _freak_."

He can't tear his eyes away from me as I lick my scars.

"The way he ... _killed_ himself like that? All that blood ... and his parents too ... Now no _normal_ person wants to kill their parents."

Come on, look me in the eye, Richard.

Richard the Lionheart.

Richard the brave.

He does, finally, freezes like a rabbit in the eye of a shotgun.

"Have _you_ ever felt like killing someone ... Dick?"

His handsome face is turning green. That toothy grin is fading, drooping, collapsing from his face. Like melting wax.

He's trying to recover, failing, rattling his notes, trying to talk over such a dry mouth- now why did that happen- gotta remain calm in front of your patient there Doc- don't let your pen roll too far my way ...

It's too easy. Let him off the hook- wriggling little fishy- back to the sea you go. I'm not done with you yet.

You'll leap for the hook again all by yourself, just like all the others did. _Harleen_ and Julie and Benjamin and Prescott and for those few _eventful_ sessions, Hugo Strange.

"I guess the reason why I kill so many people ... is because of my _past_."

He's sitting bolt upright again. He can barely believe it. Only six sessions in and he's getting the story?

I look past him to the blank pale walls, down at the papers on his desk, at the tan line visible under his blue collared shirt.

Tick tock tick tock.

I make him wait.

And then, finally, stuttering, unable to believe his

_Good Luck_

He asks me ... himself.

"Would you b-be willing... I mean ... would you tell me about ... y-your ... scars?"

Richard the Lionheart, lips all trembly, heart all thuddy, face flushed like an addict, take a look at yourself.

In your last moments.

 _"Ccccccc-ertainly_."


	3. Dark Red Love-Knot

Still _considering_ Doctor Dick.

On the

Edge

of his seat.

The edge is a dangerous place to be.

Either you fall or you thrive

There

on the

_Edge._

Batman's good at it.

I'm good at it (the best) (ya cling with a finger and sometimes you let yourself just ... _fall_ ... for a second)

But Dick?

I'm counting on him not making it

To breakfast.

Counting on it

As in:

 _One._ Spin him a pretty tale (pretty one, pretty one, pretty _girl at the window_ )

 _Two._ Pull out the rug (watch him stagger- confusion, betrayal, hatred, fear)

 _Three._ Give him a push (nudge- some people don't even need that)

But not everyone has

Magic Coins

To make their decisions in this world.

Batface, Twoface, Clownface ...

 _No-_ face.

Ya gotta have some character to live out here, and ready-come-on-down-Richard: you just don't got what it takes.

Ya don't got the _balls_.

* * *

He's my _captive_ audience.

He can wait a bit longer, while I gather my thoughts,

Pluck them from the darkness

And mix them into something new

Pretty girl at the window

Moon like a coin out the window

Moon has a sad face

 _Wherrreeee_... have I seen that before?

He likes girls, this one.

I can tell.

Women are too much for him, women like his strict mumsy-kins, oh she was never there for poor little Dick, always too busy at the job, always too busy helping other people and now he's here, a dead-end job ( _ya don't graduate from meee_ ) still trying to please his mother thirty years down the track. Women who have their own ideas ... he can't take that.

Oh yes.

 _Girrrrrrrls_ is what he likes, little girls still tied to the apron-strings, just-like- _him_.

Girls need big strong men to take care of them, don't they Dicky Bird? And you're a big strong man now, all grown up and helping people. Trying to please society,

(that's where he went wrong)

_Have you come here to play Jesus_

_To the lepers in your head?_

I think ya have, Doc. The _god_ complex (everyone has one, don't be ashamed)

Some are just more right than others.

_Well it's too late_

_Tonight_

_To drag the past out into the light_

But a bedtime story?

I can do that, easy.

* * *

**(tape begins recording)**

P: "Morning, Dick."

D: "Good morning. How did you sle ..."

P: "Gotta bone ta pick with ya, Dick. Now ... don't. Hee-hee, don't get that idea. It's a fig-ure of speech."

D: "Ha-ha. Yes, well, considering your, um, reputation, it's only logical that I would ..."

P: "Oh _shush-shush_. Now ... ya gotta understand, Dick, that what I'm telling you isn't what I ... uh ... told the others. Ya know, um, _Harley_ and _Julie_ and _Benjamin_. This is the real deal. And I think, being, the ... honest guy that I am, I should, ya know, get something for this. 'Cause it's painful, this stuff. I can't just blurt it all out. And I gotta be sure that I'm talking to the right man, right, ya know, a woman wouldn't understand would they ... _you_ know. A guy like _you_. You see, _women_ , they cause all the world's problems. Right-right down to the apple, in the ah, Garden of Eden. I mean, right back ta _Biblical times, Dick_! This is a man-to-man thing ..."

D: "I completely understand your reticence to speak, Joker, considering your ... previous doctors. But I'd like you to know that whatever you feel comfortable telling me, I will certainly do my best to, um ..."

P: "I know ya will, Doc. I trust you. Y'know, um, _a lot_. Like more than anyone, around here. As soon as I read your file, I thought to myself, now here is a man in which one can ... _confide-uh_."

D: "Well, I am pleased to hear that you trust me on that level Joker. Especially as ... well ... _Ahem._ And now, would you like ..."

P: "I want Grand Theft Auto: Gotham City."

D: "Um ... sorry?"

P: "It's a deal, Doc. You get my story-eeee and I get my game. _Ooh_ , and my pick of the lib-rar-y."

D: "Well I don't know if Doctor Arkham will allow ..."

P: "Well, I'm not telling this story to Ark-hammm ... _am I_?"

D: "I don't know ..."

P: "How much do ya reckon my story's worth, Doc?"

D: "What?"

P: "How much do ya reckon, to a um ... _doctor._ Like you. How much do ya reckon they would be paid?"

D: "Well, I've never really looked into it..."

P: "But a lot. Right?"

D: "Well, yes ..."

P: "Over a million?"

D: "Well ... maybe ..."

P: "Plus all the prestige. I guess. For, um, working out _t_ _he Joker_."

D: "Yes, I ..."

P: " _Huh_. Nice to know I'm worth some-thing to _someone_."

D: "Okay. Okay. Look, now I can't promise anything, I mean the books, that shouldn't be too hard, but you have to give me some time ..."

P: "Ah, Doc? I'm a _terminal_ case. I got all the time. In. The. World. Oh, and one ... more ... thing."

D: "Y-yes?"

P: "I wanna play my game ... in the rec room. With- _out_ a straitjacket. And _with_ all my _friends-ah_. Guy could go crazy, with nobody to talk-uh with but ... _himself._ Heh-hoo-ha. Aha."

**(footsteps leaving room)**

P: Hummmm hmmm hmm. Hum. _Oh_. Oh, you, ah, forgot to - don't worry _. I'll_ do it. I'll do it I'll do it ...

**(indistinct noises)**

**(tape is switched off)**

* * *

Dick will sing to my tune, eeee-vent-ually.

Back in my cell, staring at the ceiling.

Replaying all those little moments with Him.

That affected voice (or he's gotta lay off the smokes ha-HAHA)

The way He _glares_ so ...

His eyes are the same colour as mine.

It's gonna be fun, looking up at every roof-top (bat roost) to see Him looking back.

It's gonna be fun, fun fun fun because He's

(just like me)

We're both too different

To be satis-fied with a ... normal life.

_(normal life)_

But first ... play with the puppets.

I've gotta be content with puppets (make 'em dance) but now I've seen the real thing-reminds-me-of-that-night-burning-all-through-my-shoulders-on-light-streaked-roads-each-step-more-real-than-the-last-get-out-of-my-way-truck-all-flipped-driver-all-dead-

 _GET. OUT. OF MY WAY_.

This-is- between-me-and-him

_Me-and-Him_

Bullets-shattering-inside-the-car-a-body-jerks-good-out-of-the-way-come-on-hit-me-with-that-Bat-bike-come on-come on _\- I wantcha ta' do it_ -be-like-me-stop me- _STOP ME_ \- no-one-else-can-no-one-else-will-except-you-and-I-bet-you-won't-I'm-gonna-show-you-why-we're-different-better-than-mindless-corpses-in-cars-come on-MOVE IT- come on-

Let-me-show-you-how-to-be- _more_

Hit me-hit me-HIT ME- _come on_ -I wantcha ta' do it-hit me- _come on_ HIT. ME.

"Oooooohhh _haHA-WHOO-HA_ -HA-Haaa."

I like memories, I like this one, I _like_ it.

He hit me late-rrrrrrr. At the station. Thrashing crashing Bat, mask cracking just a little (hello in there) and all for that little ... bunny.

Couldn't have that.

Of course.

 _Him-and-Me. Me-and-Him_.

No interruptions.

That's how it's gonna stay.

_Two-fiftyeeee-fifty-second-street. Goes up with a Boom,_

_While a Bat saves a Rat_

_Just so I can break himmmm in. TWO._

"HAAA-hahaaaa-ha-ho-HA."

Mmmmmm ...

Memories pass the time, keeps me sharp.

Like a good workout, and-yet relaxing, like having a long sleep.

 _Ref-resh-ing-uh_ is the word.

Dick comes by.

He's swung the books (of course) (never doubted ya) and I pick a few interesting titles.

Like _Papillon_ , original French, front cover falls off (oh ah whoops) in my hands.

What is this doing in - are they honest(not)ly that stupid not to ...

"HA HAAA HAA AHA AHAA AHAHAAA haaa whoooo HUH HAAAH."

Everyone is uneasy, but no one likes a sad clown.

"I guess ... you like that one?"

Doctor Dick, looking worried that his meal ticket might not sing. Like a _birdddddddd-ah._

And then he steps closer.

"You speak French?"

I clutch the book to my be-pyjama-ed self.

"Only on uh ... only uh, on _Wednesdays_."

They leave finally, with Dick singing promises about my game (promises promises people promise almost anything when there's sharp things involved)

(like money) (or knives)

Hmm.

Stabbity stab. Cash grab.

I read _Papillon_ , on my mattress, feet up on the wall.

Occasionally pages fall out and land on my face.

Old, yellowed, crunchy.

Like leaves in fall.

I like it, it reminds me of

-something-

So I tear more out from the end (no more ending now no one else gets to read the end-ing NOW)

And it's good.

For a while.

* * *

I get my game the next day.

I also get the rec room, but alllllllllllllll to myself, unfortunate-lee.

Dick's upset, but he just couldn't risk the safety of all the blah

_Blah blah blah_

Blee blah

Fail.

So I choose a (purple) car, and run over prostitutes on the sidewalks until I feel _better_.

(It takes three hours, forty-six minutes-and ten seconds- for me to feel ... better)

Dick's face is all flushed (pay up pay up pay up time) he's thinking.

Story plus article plus _t_ _he Joker_ = money = I guess other things.

Like women. (Sorry Dick, girrrrlllss)

I don't need _money_ to get women.

Or men.

Batmen.

Ha.

* * *

**(tape begins recording)**

D: This is Doctor Richard Jacques with Patient #1 AKA Joker. The time is 3:00pm.

D: So, Joker, today I'd like to talk about your scars.

P: Mm-hmm.

D: Would you like to begin or would you like me to ask questions and you can answer. Whichever you're comfortable with, of course.

P: Um ... well ... how about _you_ choose there, Doc.

D: Well, okay then. How about I ask you some questions?

P: Okay.

D: How old were you when it happened?

P: Weeeelll, seeing as how I don't know how old I am ... uh, _now_ , I um ... really couldn't tell ya.

D: Any idea?

P: Fine, I was ... um ... sixteen.

D: Okay.

P: _Sweet_ sixteen.

D: Alright, sweet sixteen. Now, were the wounds ... self-inflicted?

**(period of silence)**

P: Why don'tcha tell meeee? Well, uh, _this_ one ... is quite, ah long. Artistic, wouldn't ya say but uh ... _t his_ one, Doc? Do you think I put down my knife and decided to use ... a _razzzz-or_ on the other ... one?

**(silence)**

P: How 'bout ... I tell the story.

D: If that would make y ...

P: So I had this _girl_ -friend, when I was, um, younger. And she was just absolutely gor-ge-ous ya know. She had this long black hair, and she was just the sweetest girl you ever did see. And she was the daughter of this bartender, who owned this bar which catered to ... well ...all the unsavoury types. Ya know ... _criminals_. And there was this guy that worked there, this grunt which stacked boxes and cleaned the bar, and he loved her. He was crazy, jealous of me-and of-herrr. I would always meet her at night, so her daddy didn't know, and one night this _grunt,_ he tells some of the local crims where she's gonna be waiting. And when I get there that night ... she's dead.

**(silence)**

P: They raped her, my sweet girl, and they beat her until she _broke_. And I was late that night, and when I came, and I found her ... when someone ya love gets murdered and you weren't there to protect her ... it _changes_ ya. On the inside. So, anyway, I find out who did it, and I go after 'em. But I'm just a kid, and they smack me around and laugh in my face. And they tell me that I shouldn't take it so seriously, there are plenty more bitches around town, and that she wasn't even that good ... of a _fuck_...anyway. And then ... they carve me up. So I wait 'til my face heals up, and then I go after 'em again.

D: ... And what happened?

P: I got shot down. Like a dog. On the highway.

**(silence)**

P: Sometimes the direct approach ain't the best way, Doc. Ya know? Hee-ha-ha-HAHAAA!

**(silence)**

P: (continues to laugh)

**(tape is switched off)**

* * *

Doctor Dick is pissed. Off.

(At me)

He storms into my session with Harl(y)een (apparently I was _more stable_ with her)

Waving around a wad of papers

Some spiral to the table and I read

Upside down

Some lines which sound

Familiar ( _dog-highway-red-love-knot-landlord-daughter_ )

And accuses me of making up my story.

I mean. Well.

Duh.

Ha.

Quinzel leaps to defend me (she's tiny next to him but so brave my little _protector_ )

While

I

 _Laugh_.

* * *

The next morning, a nurse jabs my arm.

"What's this for?" I ask, reasonably (it _is_ my arm)

But she slopes off, guarded by orderlies, and doesn't say a word.

How ruuuude.

New medication (again). Some make me sick, others make me sleepy, but this one seems to be ...

There's something ... _different_ about this one.

And when Harleen asks me (oh-so-casually) even though her fingers are twitching and her face is all lined with worry (why I wonder) I _like_ talking-

She turns on the tape

And she asks me about some things

And then the scars

And I answer (what harm can it do)

(I feel so ... )

Why not talk?

Why. Not?

 _I like_ talking.

So I will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References for this chapter in order of appearance: 'One' by U2, Papillon, a memoir by the convicted criminal Henri Charrière about his various escapes from penal institutions in the 1930's, and Alfred Noyes' poem 'The Highwayman'.
> 
> The drug Joker is given at the end of the chapter is sodium thiopental. It is still used in some countries in interrogations, and it apparently makes the victim 'chatty' and willing to cooperate with their captors. Technically, it's illegal to use in the US, but there were (are?) some programs in which it was used on mental patients. And I imagine Arkham Asylum has a lot of practices that aren't mentioned in the inspections.


	4. Meaningless Noise

The tape cuts into her hand.

Doctor Harleen Quinzel is pacing in Arkham's staff bathroom, back and forth across the dingy tiled floor.

She doesn't know what to do.

 

* * *

 It is very rare in a person's life that they can claim that a day was at once the greatest and yet the most terrible day of their lives.

But Harleen thinks she can.

When he arrived, it was her chance. To crawl out from under the psycho-therapy rock and be noticed. He was, at the time of his capture, the most wanted man in Gotham. As a criminal, of course, but every psychologist worth their salt was watching closely, all through those days of terror, because here was a chance that came along...well, never, for most of them.

Gotham seems to have more than its fair share of mental patients, but there are none to compare to the Joker. And for a girl from a small town, for a girl who had spent crushing, draining, thankless years amongst the hospitals and prisons and institutions and asylums, it was a hand up out of the pit.

It would mean book deals, articles, seminars, respect- something hard to come by, in this field, when you were blonde, young and female- and it would mean money. The great and common motivation.

But not his. Hadn't she heard that he had burned a fortune, more than enough money to seize the Mob, hell, the whole city, by the throat? And for what? To prove a point?

It was insane.

And yet ... _he_ didn't seem insane at all.

Of course, there are words that describe parts of him: psychopathic, sociopathic, sadistic.

Delusions of grandeur - and yet Harleen's never met a man who didn't have delusions of grandeur. And are they delusions, when every man, woman and child in Gotham knows his name?

No matter how you try to define him, he slips away, changes his skin, right before her. He talks to her with such gravity, such understanding.

When he looks at her, she feels nauseous, so afraid. Her stomach drops and her fingers shake and she blushes and yet, and yet she feels so ... _bold_ with him. He is from a much larger world than she has ever imagined. He knows so many things.

And he doesn't think he's sick. It's not uncommon, but when he tells her that medication won't, can't fix what he is, (and he seems pleased by it), she believes him.

She has told him, more than once, to keep an open mind about his treatment.

But he just laughed- God, that _laugh_ \- quirked a brow, leaned forward-like it was a secret- and said, "Ya know the trouble with keeping an open mind, Har-ley? Someone will always insist on coming along and ... _dropping_ things into it."

How can he get to her so quickly? When he speaks, she's so fascinated that she forgets to take notes. She takes the recordings of their sessions to her office and listens to them over and over again. He controls their sessions, really, she can't delude herself into thinking that these sessions are the same as the others she conducts. That he is just another patient.

She doesn't want to admit it- _obssessed, you're obsessed_ \- but that word hangs in her head, especially late at night.

She doesn't sleep well any more, in her tiny apartment. And she notices things like- _I have no pictures on my walls-my bed's covered in case notes- I have no life, I have no life outside these papers, this career-_ it's funny because she's never really noticed, cared, before.

Before him.

She looks at the tape.

_And now you've betrayed him._

She looks at her reflection, tries to see that girl who was so enthusiastic about helping people, but her blue eyes are wide and empty, staring back out of the mirror.

_Judas._

She's done her deal with the devil- no worse-with a Dick- and he's going to want the tape.

Once he has it-

He doesn't even have it yet and already-

If she gives it to him-

There will be money, yes, and respect and probably articles and book deals and lots of lovely things to clutter up her bare apartment-but-

What about _him_?

The door squeals on its hinges behind her and Richard is framed in the door. His strong jaw looks weak, quivering under the harsh lights. His voice echoes over the tiles.

"Have you got it?"

 

* * *

 Some-thing's wrong.

Something's wrong something's wrong

something's wrong

some-thing'swrongwrongwrongwrong

_Beep._

 

* * *

 They've done something-what have they done-why can't I-

_Beep._

 

* * *

Calm

Down.

What's the last thing that-oh.

Harleeeee-n.

Harleen and her little ex-peri-ment.

She-and the tape-

Oh.

_Oh._

_Beep_.

 

* * *

_Shush._

S-hush.

Because everytime

I get

Excited

They kick in.

Okay ...

Okayyyy ...

Gotta get out.

They've wised up somehow (you know how)

That-tape-and-they-drugged-me-

_Nobody._

Drugs.

Me.

-and-now-its

Thought I had my little Harls all figured out.

Hee-heh-heh.

Oooohhh

That

_Bitch._

_Beep._

 

* * *

 Harleen leans over his bed, watches sadly as his eyelids twitch.

Whatever he's dreaming of, it makes him frown, makes the scar tissue bunch and twist in grotesque ways. She wonders if he realises what has happened.

She wonders if he knows that it was her.

But Jeremiah's word is still law and while he's in charge, he's quite content to let this particular patient rot in a drugged sleep. It's quite an elegant solution for all involved really.

(She has to gulp down the nausea. This is not humane at all.)

Every time the patient's heart rate spikes over the approved resting rate, or his brain activity become more complex than what is considered necessary for basic function, the drug is administered straight into the vein.

(They have to feed him by IV now, like he's a vegetable. It makes her _sick_ -)

If he's never fully conscious, then he's never a danger to himself or to others. That's the bottom line.

(My _god_ )

She strokes his hair, because he can't stop her.

"I'm so sorry." She breathes, quietly so that the surveillance microphones won't pick it up.

She remembers his wild, joyful laughter in their last session, the drug singing in his veins, making him speak so quickly that the words knotted themselves up as they came out. Jumbled sentences about escapes and French and purple and knives and smiles and Batman-always Batman-and how stupid they all were, thinking that a straitjacket and a padded cell could hold him.

That she could cure him.

That stings a little, even now.

Nobody wants to try any more. Nobody wants to bother about him any more. He'll gather dust, here, in this tiny private room, tied to his bed, not even realising what he's missing.

And it's her fault.

"I'm so _so_ sorry."

She passes two guards, one either side of the infirmary door, on her way out.

She doesn't look back.

She can't.

 

* * *

 Someone is there ...

whispering

...

...

...

...

...

who is it

was it

...

...

...

...

I can't think properly -

...

...

...

Don't

leave

...

...

tell

me

why

I

can't-

_Beep._

 

* * *

 Every few days she stops by, strokes his hair, watches his dreaming face.

He doesn't look peaceful.

She can feel his ribs, now, count them even, her fingers tripping over each bone through his shirt.

The nurses say that he's stable, fine, fine, all fine they say, but they don't care.

Sometimes she can't come by at all, although she does try. But with all these new patients she's been assigned ...

It's too painful, looking at him waste away so slowly, and knowing somewhere deep down that maybe it could have been different. It's a pain like a knife-thrust, so deep in her gut, and it comes when she watches Richard smile in the hallways as they pass, when Jeremiah sits back in his chair with a satisfied sigh at the end of their meetings.

Sometimes it comes when she's sitting at home, listening to the television bounce off the walls. Meaningless noises. Bouncing off all her pretty new things.

Even when he wakes up, the nurses say, he doesn't do anything. Just stares at the ceiling. Blinks so slowly that they can count seconds in between. He doesn't speak to them, doesn't seem to realise they are there.

And that means he's off in his head somewhere-plotting, planning, surviving?

Or is there nothing?

If she was to speak to him now, call his name, would her voice just bounce off the walls?

When dogs go rabid they get put down. But humans don't get that same sort of detatched practicality. They must live on.

Suffering.

And somewhere inside, she knows he is.            


End file.
